


wearing your broken body on

by orphan_account



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21521212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bruce digs his fingers into Arthur's rib cage.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82





	wearing your broken body on

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [pull, pull just enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21476452) by Anonymous. 



> Title from "Baby" by the bird and the bee.

Bruce digs his fingers into Arthur's rib cage.

It should hurt. Would be lovely, actually, if it hurt, because it would not be a cold hurt; rather, a warm hurt, every lash that Bruce lays on him feeling like a hot, wet tongue licking a stripe up and down his skin. But it does not hurt. Bruce is not hurting him.

Arthur laughs so hard that he begins to wheeze, his eyes first welling, then spilling over, with tears. He pleads with Bruce to stop, but Bruce persists. He manages to eek out a pallid, stuttering _Stop!_ , which only seems to spur Bruce on.

"Not good enough," Bruce says, now running his soft, uncalloused fingertips over Arthur's sides. He sounds like he's swallowed a laugh. "Tell me to stop, again."

"St - " Arthur spits out before a full-body howl overtakes him, attempting to curl into himself as Bruce runs his fingers next over Arthur's stomach, still sleepy-hollow, and then abruptly Bruce's face, before beholding a hint of amusement, falls away into a syrupy cool, his fingers brushing the waistband of Arthur's briefs.

"Beg me to stop," he says, running his fingers back and forth across the wiry hairs at the top of Arthur's trail. "I want to hear you beg me."

Arthur, humiliatingly, is still exorcising the last of the giggles. Bruce cocks an eyebrow at him, which is much, much more sensual than it has any right to be, and then he's dipping underneath the elastic, beginning to shimmy it down Arthur's hips.

No," Arthur says, the word arriving unbidden, and when Bruce freezes, caught off-guard, Arthur clarifies. "Through them."

"No," Bruce parrots, wrinkling his nose. "Gross. I don't want a mouthful of underwear."

"Not any more gross than - " Arthur starts, then stops.

" - A mouthful of - " Bruce attempts to finish for him before Arthur sits up so quickly that it's disorienting, pressing a finger to Bruce's full mouth to shush him.

" - Dick," Bruce finishes, flat and muffled. He captures Arthur's finger in between his teeth and bites it, gently, before setting it free. "You're always so afraid," he says, amused again. "Dirty, old man that you are."

"I'm sorry," Arthur apologizes, and Bruce shakes his head at him, soft, dark hair bouncing with it.

"No, you're not," he says. "Don't lie to me. You told me you'd never lie to me. You're not sorry." Bruce is smiling, now, which makes Arthur's chest feel cold and tight. He smiles like a threatened animal, all teeth. "Tell me the truth. Or tell me to stop."

What Bruce is asking him is an impossibility, no more feasible than either of them sprouting wings and flying around the grounds of the manor. "I'm sorry," he says again.

When Bruce reaches into his briefs, he's already half-hard. "Shut up," Bruce commands, expression unreadable for its ice. "I don't want to hear you talk for a while. Just shut up and let me."

Arthur lets him. He always lets him, though it makes his stomach churn to even think of it as _letting him_ , as if Arthur's cock in his mouth is a gift, a reward. Bruce has gotten better with practice, flexing his strengths, pouty mouth a fallen cherub's, letting the tip of Arthur's cock rest on the fattest, fruit-ripe point of his bottom lip, and using his weaknesses to his own advantage, letting his teeth graze the ridge when Arthur makes a quiet, aching noise. But that is not something that Arthur has bestowed upon him altruistically.

"I told you to be quiet," Bruce reminds him, pulling off of him with a slick _Pop!_ , when Arthur moans, belabored with love and guilt and guilty love and lovely guilt, "Oh, _Bruce_."

Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it at the pointed look that Bruce shoots him, sharp like daggers. "Stop apologizing all the time," he says, wrapping a hand around Arthur's base. "It's gross. Just finish already. I'm tired, now."

"You can stop, if you want," Arthur assures him.

Bruce makes a little back-of-the-throat noise that Arthur has never heard him make before. "You're so _stupid_ ," he seethes desperately, beginning to move his fist, Arthur's cock making a subtly wet sound that nonetheless sounds obscene in the silent tension of the room as Arthur fucks his hand. It takes him a truly embarrassingly short amount of time to come, and then Bruce is crawling up the length of him, holding out his semen-sticky hand to Arthur. "Clean me up," Bruce demands, and Arthur obliges, taking care to take every last drop into his mouth.

"Do you love me?" Bruce asks him, afterward.

"More than anyone else," Arthur answers him, voice a sieve, shards of rock catching in his throat as the smallest grains of sand spill forth.

"Then act like it," Bruce says, sounding exhausted well beyond his years, before he kisses Arthur, almost chastely, and climbing out of bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (belated) birthday, Arthur Fleck! My gift to you, and to this fine audience here, is a short fill for the prompt   
> "tickling," requested by a Guest.


End file.
